Cut Time
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: It was fine it was friends it was fantastic having all of that skin right there in front of him.
1. Chapter 1

_Blame all of this on watching Love Actually...

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_

A tap on his shoulder as he chatted with Brass, drink in hand, the other in his pocket. He spun, suit still crisp and stunning. There was Christmas all about him, a holiday feel, something lighter and easier to touch. That little slip-slide of holiday and wholesomeness shone in his eyes and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. Perhaps the wine had wrapped itself too tightly around her tongue.

Maybe that was what happened at those things, after one had consumed too much alcohol with the spirit of the season coursing through their veins. Good will towards man, or woman, and all of that nonsense.

"Just, wanted to uh... maybe one, uh... nevermine... nevermind." Sara smiled shyly, embarrassed, nodded a hello at Brass. He smiled a bit shyly as well and raised his glass a little in her direction, knowing completely and exactly what was happening in front of him. Grissom bowed his head and smiled, secretly, at his drink. "Goodnight," she said and stepped back, clicking away on her heels.

She was brilliant in silk and Grissom had to blink once, twice, to actually scale the full height of her lengthy legs. That did him in, wondering where those legs led to and up, up, higher to her lips, eyes, her _mind_.

Grissom looked back at Brass who shrugged, grabbed Grissom's glass and looked away. Grissom, both hands then in his pockets, moved quickly to halt Sara from leaving by grabbing her arm. He was completely unsure but something made him spur on, stop her body from leaving his presence. "Sara, what was it that you wanted?"

A smile flitted to her lips, but she dropped her head. "No, it was... nothing." Then, she lifted her head and smiled brilliantly at him, a farce if he'd ever seen one. "Goodnight, Grissom." Again, she turned to leave, hands clasped behind her back, head bowed.

Sighing to himself, and kicking himself a mental kick in the face, "No," he called after her and sped up to cut her off, spin around and face her. "What did you want?"

"I... just wanted to ask if you wanted to dance." She shook her head. "But you wouldn't have uh, wanted to earlier and you probably don't want to now and I was about to leave anyway, so-"

"I'd, uh, love to dance."

Her mouth hung open just a little, a stunned smile slithering its way around her lips. "Oh, uh, okay... I uh..."

So Grissom just grabbed her around the wrist, spun her around and pressed a hand to the small of her back, leading her to the dance floor where countless other couples were swaying to the music. Some of them were close, some of them not. Some of them shared a dance as friends and some as something more.

He smiled down at her and she up at him as he took her into his arms, one of her hands nestled in his. It was fine; it was friends; it was _fantastic_ having all of that skin right there in front of him.

His hands began by just barely brushing her hips, a safe distance from her skin, a safe distance from anything.

Safe.

Twinkle lights and merlot and slow, slow music made it far too dangerous. And no one was watching, no one cared to watch. There was too much to talk about; there was too much mingling to be had. There was too much to dance and see and taste that no one looked on as his hands slid to sear her lower back.

No one was watching as they were engulfed by a sea of faceless faces; no one saw as she gasped.

Her cheek felt entirely too right where it laid down on his shoulder, warm and welcome. Grissom attempted to form words, tell her to stop that really, it was too much. "Sara..." was all that came out.

And she smelled of cinnamon, and she smelled of back-east winter. Something of mint and cocoa and marshmallow in the way she breathed. Pine and mulberry kissed where her fingers suddenly came up to graze the skin of his neck, right where his hair began.

He, for all of his strength and composure, allowed his eyes to slip closed. And then, well, he allowed himself to rub his chin along her hairline, nestling her face down against his suit.

The way they moved, back and forth, both of their eyes closed. It was too perfect a moment to even being to think either one of them should open their eyes and accept the real world once again.

His hand, once stationary, skimmed over the open back of her dress, passing in between silk and skin and silk again. And there, in the movements over the shiny floor, nothing counted. They could forget about it all when it was over.

Her breath against his neck, his hands on her skin, then in her hair and then, well, everywhere because he couldn't readily decide where to place his skin on hers. All was too enticing and his body shook with near overload.

Her hands on his back, in his hand, holding him close as if he really was her own... but he wasn't. He was nowhere near hers but the song, the moment seemed to gleam on and ask her to pretend all of that. The song, that was it; that asked her to hold him closer, to spread her legs just a bit wider so that their pelvises molded together.

Blue met brow met blue meeting brown and back again and again in shock. It was all too simple to let _simple_ feeling filter though the tiny cracks.

He inhaled her scent as she inhaled his and they found a symmetry that was utterly perfect for the moment. No one was watching, no one cared. Peaceful ground in their sidestepping, in their utterly confusing dancing.

But Sara, she dug her face into his shoulder and hung on as if he were truly a life saving device and she, the only thing living in the brash Atlantic. She, clinging to him, her fingers, her arms, her breath speaking to him, making him know, _making_ him know that he was the only thing that she valued. Breathed again, moving in waves over already heated skin. "Sorry, Griss."

"Shhh, no one's watching," and he kissed her temple and everything was simple. Everything was that never-ending love the only the movies chose to depict. And his hand snaked around her lower back, just above where the dress began once more, and pulled closer while _no one was looking_.

And a few more tender kisses on her temple, a few stolen breaths and the band kicked up an entirely different tune. And that was what spurred Sara back to reality. She pulled back with a confused and hurt look, smoothing down the contours of the black silk. Grissom simply shrugged and said, "No one was looking."

The only problem was that when they really disengaged and avoided the other's eyes...

Neither one of them forgot the way the other's skin felt and how they longed to touch upon it again.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks Radz for the beta. And I bet you wanna know what song I'm talking about. I bet you do. Mahaha!

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_The first thing that she did upon entering her apartment was not to slip off the ungodly high heels she had on her feet. It was not to shrug off her peacoat and toss her keys on the counter. There was nothing normal about the night and the normalities of her movements had died away too as soon as she had left the dance floor.

No. Sara Sidle shut the door to her apartment and made a beeline for the computer. Once seated behind the desk, tapping out a staccato rhythm with her foot, she powered it up and waited for the pleasant sound of the welcome screen to greet her.

The events of the night were beginning to cool from a boil to a simmer in her mind and while her emotions weren't as unchecked as they had been earlier, she was still smiling and there was still a blush upon her cheeks. The blush hid the deeper, guiltier parts of her soul. Her fingers still remembered the gentle texture of his suit and the heat of the man it surrounded. The sensuality of the entire situation was still filtered in her bones and it just felt so very lovely but the type of lovely that wasn't everlasting.

For a moment, she began to spiral down the Cinderella-metaphor route but halted herself before she got too far. A little bell sounded on her desktop and she shook herself out of the comfy reverie she'd blanketed herself in. It wasn't likely to last long anyhow, that's how she had to look at it.

A little click-click, type-type and she'd pulled up her file sharing program and for the first time in a _long_ time, typed in a song title into the little box. The cursor moved slowly, just as her fingers moved, as if she were loving each letter as she typed it in and pressed 'enter'. It felt odd to want to cherish a song, to want to keep it. It was a memento, a marker of a time that she would press close to her heart until it dried up, turned to ashes.

The song. She had to hear it again. She had to burn it onto a CD so that she could bring it with her in the car, so she could sing to it in the shower, so she could fall asleep with it and wrap herself up in the brief, wonderful warmth that he had lent to her for one dance.

As she watched a list of possible downloads pop up, she thought deeply about the probability that tonight had been the one and only time she would ever really get to hold him. It was a thought laden with thick, heavy sadness that stole all of the delight from her marrow.

The titles had stopped scrolling and she positioned the cursor over the first title and clicked, watching as the song appeared at the bottom of the screen. As the percentage of the completed download increased, something inside of her tore open wider, allowing years of grief to diffuse and weigh down her body.

She did slip off her shoes then. She pushed out of her coat and draped it over the back of her chair haphazardly. Curling one foot beneath her, dangling the other back and forth, she allowed a brief sob to echo through her body and escape the confines of her throat. There it was, the familiar twang of never. The never that lingered all about her; the never that taunted forever with its constant presence. She'd expected the pain; there was no way she would have been able to touch him and not hurt.

But the gut-wrenching, soul-searing heat of it was so brilliant that the tears that slipped out between her lashes scorched their way over her skin. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. Things that made a person so happy weren't supposed to be able to shred them to pieces simultaneously.

One hundred percent of the download and a tiny 'ding' went off. Shaking her head and laughing a little bit at herself, at her hiccoughing emotions, she double clicked the completed song and sat back to listen. She didn't pay much attention to the lyrics though they were quite pretty and rather appropriate. The woman's voice filtered through the air and she simply felt the beat and remembered how he'd held her, where he'd laid his hands, how he spoke.

Sara could recall the _exact_ feel of his skin, of his _lips_. Dear god, his mouth had been so warm when it had pressed that kiss to her temple. That had sent her down her own little fairy-princess spiral all on its own. She wondered what maybe his lips might do if they were pressed to hers. Massive heart failure wasn't out of the question.

She laughed at her joke and the tears slowed. They slowed, but didn't stop. How could they? Tearing away from him was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do.

The song ran its way through and she listened again, the slow, sensual beat making the hairs on her arms stand straight up. Bristly facial hair over her scalp almost set her keeling right there on the polished floor, but like she had been practicing for so long, she swallowed it all and just felt.

His shoes, she wished she'd gotten a good look at them. Were they new? Were they special? Were they perhaps his regular dress shoes? Would those shoes hold that one dance until the next time he wore them? Hers would, as she was sure she'd have no time soon to sport them.

It was tempting to put the song on repeat, but she just pressed play once more and said that that would be it; just once more was all she needed.

She retreated to her bedroom and placed the shoes back in their box and tucked them back into the depths of her closer along with all of the other pairs of heels that she never wore. That in itself was depressing, and as her throat constricted again she emitted a heavy, fast breath that stirred her hair.

It was nice while it had lasted. It was all she had wanted, that was what she had convinced herself... then again, she was never really good at that.

With feet bare, she padded back into her living room. She couldn't help but noticing how the song would be more at home in a space with wine and candles and... a man to hold. Sara reclined on the couch and closed her eyes, tapping out the beat against the leather.

Fingers plucked her dress away from her skin, picking it up, letting it fall back into place like tiny lover's kisses. Whispers of silk along the skin that he'd never touch. Her other hand kept with the song, trailing it out, feeling it.

Somewhere amongst the taps, the knocks on her door fell in sync and her brain melded them in with the music. It was a moment before she realized that there was someone actually at her door. And with hips swaying, eyes slightly red, she made her way to the door.

A quick flick of her wrist and she pulled the door open to reveal Grissom standing there, shoulders square, back straight, eyes focused directly on her face.

"I have no reason to be here," he said, and stepped inside.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks Lauren.

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_Her, walking away, silk and champagne, he felt like she was leaving him forever. He couldn't stop the hollow despair that stole the breath from his body. He'd let her go too many times, too many.

It was the first time that someone else's body had provided him comfort in a time of need. But holding Sara hadn't been need, it had been born of sheer want. When he had let her go, when she had drifted from his arms, that's when the need had settled in.

He needed her back in his arms; it ached to let her go. It ached in that all too cliché way. Melancholy had settled between his bones and skin and flitted about his body before he acknowledged the problem. It was all too easy to let it slip away, just filter through his fingers, finer than grains of sand, softer. But instead he had clutched it and ran, held it in his heart and took off after her.

"I have no excuse to be here," and he'd pushed his way inside, carrying a bit of winter with him. Christmas had a tendency to do that, linger about one's body. "I don't have a reason."

There was still glitter and tinsel about him and for some reason that sated part of her soul. But the soul was big and always hungry and didn't relieve her of the burden of what she assumed to be unrequited love. He didn't come there without a reason, though, and she decided to hear him out. "There must be a reason," she stated a bit petulantly. "You always have a reason, never do anything without one."

Grissom nodded, well aware of the truth of that statement. He took a moment to look at his surroundings, never having had a chance to when he had been there before. The walls felt more oppressive, living, breathing around them.

"There is," he sighed, defeated. "You already know it. You know it better than I do."

Sara shook her head and moved to stand right in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not sure I do, Grissom." Her words were slow and sure and her voice was caring, not demanding.

"That there's something here that won't go away." Another sigh accompanied his next sentence. "And I don't want to ignore it anymore."

She smiled. He smiled. "It's very tiring," he quipped and she laughed a little. They both settled into silence and it was then that Grissom's ears attuned themselves to the song filtering out of her computer speakers. "This is…"

A flush of embarrassment crept up over her chest; he wanted to taste it, wanted to feel the heat rising up her body to settle along her cheeks. "Yeah, I just wanted it… as a memento, I guess."

An understanding nod was his response. Sara smiled to herself, shook her head at her frivolity, then she hung her head; the weight of the moment was a bit too much. She didn't see Grissom take a step forward. She didn't know how close he was until an index finger drew a slow line over her collarbone. "There's more," he said, voice dropping just a fraction, just enough to let her know that something was changing.

"What?" Last chance, her posture said. Last, very _last_ chance.

"I do, want you… that is to say." He stuttered, just a bit and Sara fought the rush of affection in her chest. "I want all of you," and he drew his finger back again.

"No," her voice quivered on the monosyllabalic response. She'd been there on the precipice before and she wasn't quite sure she'd be able to balance there again. Though her voice was soft, there was a tinge of remorse to it. "You couldn't have felt this way, no, not all this time and been like this."

Grissom swallowed, and she was closed enough to hear the sound of the saliva slipping down his throat. "You'd be surprised."

"No," she whispered, not wanting to believe, already knowing, from the tone of his voice that the words he spoke were true. The ball of nerves that had settled itself in her stomach was beginning to unknot.

His fingers took up residence at the sides of her neck, softly stroking, tickling against the hair at the base of her skull. Her head lolled. "No one's watching now, either," she whispered and he chuckled, fingers becoming bolder, shifting to pass over her arms, falling to twine with her hands.

She'd never wanted to be small, small and cold in anyone's arms. That was how she felt, ready to submit fully to him because there was that trust and that love that taunted. It was that, that hurt her; the love, it was so strong, foreign and unabashedly frightening, pulling in her breast, it made her second guess.

His palms, at her hips, pulled her to the right and then to the left and before she knew it, her head was resting on his shoulder and they were swaying as the song somehow repeated itself once more.

"Let me take you to bed," he said, nearly a whisper, just bordering on. He pressed forward, pelvis to pelvis, allowing his hands to pull away from her and just graze the sides of her breasts. "Let me take you to bed." That bedroom voice, eyes and his skin still clothed in that suit.

True, he was the one who reached out to her, but she was the one who had _allowed_ him to touch her. "Is that really wise?" she asked, voice betraying the fragility that lay just beneath sure exterior.

His lips fell to her neck and began dropping tiny kisses there, pushing her towards the place where logic and reality faded to a blur.

"I don't care anymore," he said fiercely, harshly, definitely.

So she walked towards the bedroom and he followed her.

She could stop it all if she wanted to; that was her final lie.

**The End**


End file.
